


King Maker, King Slayer

by DachOsmin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Choking, Dry Humping, Frottage, Hate Sex, M/M, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24017503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: After Jaime finishes carving Aerys’ throat in half, the weight of what he’s just done hits him like a crossbow bolt to the gut. The iron throne is cold beneath him, the blood on his armor still hot.This is how Eddard Stark finds him.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Ned Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	King Maker, King Slayer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



After Jaime finishes carving Aerys’ throat in half, the weight of what he’s just done hits him like a crossbow bolt to the gut. He’s alone in the throne room, and everything is so quiet except for his own harsh breathing and the drip of blood from his sword onto the flagstones below.

There’s nowhere else to sit but the throne itself, because Aerys is—was, godsdamned it—an arrogant bastard. But Jaime is a hairsbreadth from keeling over, and any port in a storm, eh? Breath coming in shaky gasps, he stumbles over to the throne and collapses into the seat.

There’s a sting in his hand; he glances over to see red welling up from between his clenched fingers. Must have cut his palm on one of the swords. He welcomes the pain; it’s something to focus on, something to ground him. Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe.

The iron throne is cold beneath him, the blood on his armor still hot.

This is how Eddard Stark finds him.

He comes with a passel of knights, swords held high. They look to Jaime like something out of a storybook: valiant heroes ready to vanquish whatever monsters are lurking in the heart of the palace. What a shame that there’s only Jaime left: a single monster, and a rather poor one at that.

“Welcome,” Jaime croaks, and meets Eddard’s gaze. Eddard’s eyes are so, so blue: piercing like they see all the warps and wefts of Jaime’s soul, narrowed like they’re distinctly unimpressed by what they see.

Eddard glances at the blood on Jaime’s sword, the body in the shadows of the throne. “Are you proclaiming yourself king, then?”

He almost laughs. He would tell Eddard it’s the last thing in the world he wants, but Eddard wouldn’t believe him. “No, my lord.” He stands and affects to stretch. “In truth, it’s an uncomfortable seat. Take it yourself or pass it to Lord Baratheon. I care not.”

He leaves Eddard like that, half a step from the throne, staring at the place where Jaime had sat, and before him Aerys, and all the other kings of Westeros.

***

Jaime retreats to the sept of the Kingsguard to await his sentence. The room is small and spare, the faces of the gods lit only by weak light filtering in through the embrasures. Shutting the door behind him, Jaime throws himself into a prone obeisance on the floor.

As his breathing evens out and the blood of Aerys’ dries on his armor, he considers what he’s just done.

He’s ended a dynasty that stretched back thousands of years. He’s broken an oath he’s spent all of his adult life holding up. He’s earned the contempt of an honorable man.

It’s funny, which of those hurts the most.

Footsteps on the cold stone behind him. Will it be execution, or the Wall? Hopefully, the latter. A true knight would say death before dishonor, but Jaime wants to live. Just another way he’s lacking.

“Ser Jaime.” It’s Eddard again, and his voice drips scorn. Why had they sent him, of all people? Or had he volunteered, eager to be the one to knock the king’s killer down a peg?

Jaime gets to his feet, stills his face into something he hopes looks arch and clever before turning around. When he does, he sees that Eddard is alone, and unarmed. Pity. He’d have liked a fight, a chance to hit something with his sword that hits back. Aerys hadn’t—no, best not think about that.

He can feel his smirk slipping, schools it back to smoothness. “Did you beg Robert to be the one to hand over my sentence?”

Eddard’s jaw clenches. “There will be no sentence,” he says at last. His voice is halting, as if he begrudges every word as he speaks it. “It is the King’s desire that you keep your white cloak.”

Well, he hadn’t expected that. “And if it is not my desire?”

A twist of his mouth. “I’m told that the Wall always needs more men.”

What a choice. “Then I am at the king’s disposal.”

Eddard snorts. “May you serve this King better than the last.” It sounds more like a threat than a benediction.

Jaime makes himself laugh in response. “May this King be better than the last,” he counters.

“He will be.” There’s conviction in Eddard’s voice, and something like hope, and oh, Jaime wishes he were quite so sure himself.

“He might be,” Jaime replies. “But not as good as you’d have been.” He straightens and makes his way for the exit of the sept, letting his pauldron brush against Eddard’s shoulder as he passes him. Eddard flinches away from the contact, or perhaps from the blood on his armor; it’s hard to tell.

***

The upending of the court takes a full week; it’s not until a fortnight later that Jaime can find time to slip away to the practice yards to hit things with his sword. It’s an overdue visit: already his skin feels too tight, too often he’s snapping at innocent comments and minor slights. It doesn’t help that the whispers have already spread, so that in every room he enters he hears murmurs of “kingslayer.”

Well. He is. And he’d do it again, if it were required of him. But all the same, it makes him grind his teeth and clench at the pommel of his sword.

He makes his way outside in the early evening, gratified to see that the practice yards outside the stables are mostly empty, and the light still strong enough to see by. He drags a mannikin upright, and then proceeds to bludgeon the stuffing out of the poor thing with a wooden practice sword.

It feels wonderful. As the sweat trickles down his face he can feel the tension in his body easing, replaced by a pleasant ache.

When he looks up, Eddard is watching him. He stands in the shadow of the stables, dressed for a ride. Jaime can’t tell how long he’s been there, only that his gaze is intent on Jaime’s sword.

Jaime swallows. For all he’s fully dressed in leathers, he feels oddly exposed. “Paint a portrait,” he snaps. “It’ll last longer.”

Eddard doesn’t respond, not at first. “I’d heard tell of your skill with a blade,” he says at last. His eyes drift to the mannikin. “It’s a shame to see it used against such a poor opponent.”

“Then offer me a better one.”

Eddard’s eyebrows lift, and it’s only then that Jaime notices that he’s wearing a sword at his hip. “I don’t duel.”

“Consider it an audit of your King’s protector, then.” When Eddard still hesitates, Jaime winks at him. “Really, Stark, I promise I won’t tell.”

He thinks for a moment that it still isn’t enough, that Eddard will turn and walk away. But then a shiver seems to go through the man, and he’s drawing the sword from its scabbard and walking into the yard to face Jaime.

Jaime can’t keep from grinning as he discards the wooden practice sword in favor of his own blade. “Shall I go easy on you?”

“Not necessary,” Eddard bites out, and then they’re slamming their swords together for the first time. The shock of it sends vibrations pulsing up Jaime’s arm and through his body, and it makes his blood sing. _Finally._

Each thrust, each parry, each animal grunt: it’s like a dance, and Jaime feels his body heat with every clash of their swords. He hasn’t fought against an opponent like this in ages: a man that is every inch his equal, that can meet each of his thrusts with a thrust of his own.

A few ripostes later they break away from each other, both panting.

“It’s a shame such skills are wasted on such a poor knight,” Eddard rasps.

Jaime refuses to be hurt by this. Instead he shrugs, lifts his blade again. “It’s the skills that make the knight.”

“Not in my opinion.”

Instead of answering in words, Jaime lets his sword reply instead: with a twist of his forearm he’s shoving Eddard’s sword to the side, and then he dances in with a well-aimed hook to Eddard’s right ankle.

Eddard stumbles with a curse and falls into the dirt; Jaime doesn’t lift a finger to help him. And oh, what a beautiful image: Eddard on his knees, cheeks flushed and mouth hanging open, eyes staring balefully up at him through the curls of his hair. The way Eddard is looking at him: if Eddard were any other man, Jaime would think…

Jaime only gets a moment to savor the victory, before Eddard abruptly spits into the dirt at his feet. “Is this how you cut down Aerys, then?”

The question hits him like a mace to the chest. All of a sudden he’s tired of this game, tired of Eddard reveling in his own saintliness. What would Eddard have done, had their positions been reversed? What impossible choice would he have made, and what comforting lies would he tell himself in the aftermath?

With a snarl, Jaime slams his heel into Eddard’s chest, sending him reeling onto his back in the dust with a cry. To attack an unarmed and defeated opponent is ungentlemanly, unchivalrous, and against all the codes of knighthood, but Jaime doesn’t fucking care: anything to wipe that smirk off of Eddard’s face. Of course, now he’s only confirmed every low opinion Eddard had of him. By the Stranger, how does the man win even when he loses?

Eddard lies there wheezing as he struggles to breathe. After a moment he makes to get up, but freezes when Jaime whisks his sword up so that the tip rests at the soft place where Eddard’s jaw meets his neck. He can feel Eddard’s pulse fluttering there, just like Aerys’ had. “No,” Jaime says into the silence, “ _this_ is how I cut down Aerys.”

Jaime holds the sword there a moment. He expects to feel something like victory. Here is Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell made low, forced to kneel at Jaime’s feet—but in the failing light, all he feels is cold.

He pulls the sword away and resheathes it. He offers Eddard a mocking flourish, and then he’s fleeing the yard, ducking into the stables, slamming his fist into the wall of an empty stall hard enough that his knuckles will probably bruise. Damn it, damn it, damn it all to seven hells and back.

Footsteps behind him and oh, just his fucking luck: it’s Eddard again. Jaime’s not sure what Eddard came here to do: dress him down or accuse him of cheating or just generally make things worse—but he won’t put up with it.

Jaime affects a casual stance as Eddard stomps up to him, and as soon as Eddard is within arm’s length and opening his mouth, ready to launch into whatever tirade he’s prepared, Jaime strikes. Eddard really will kill him for this, but Jaime doesn’t care: just once, he wants to win.

He launches himself—he’d like to think with a lion’s grace, but the angle is wrong, so it’s really more of a stumble—into Eddard, shoving him backward, so that they both fall into the straw of the open stall.

It’s a soft landing, but Eddard still curses as he lands in the straw, and again when Jaime lands on top of him. There’s rage breaking over his face like a storm, and his lips twist into a sneer when he opens his mouth to speak. “You utter—”

Jaime doesn’t plan what happens next, but somehow he’s leaning down and shutting Eddard up with his mouth, swallowing all of his curses and accusations whole. It’s a terrible kiss: Jaime batters Eddard’s mouth, bites at his lips, forces his tongue in between them. Their teeth clack, Jaime curses, Eddard bites down hard on Jaime’s lip, Jaime curses again. It’s a terrible kiss, and it’s still enough to send all his blood south.

It lasts less than a second, and then Eddard is yanking his head away. Jaime braces himself for outrage, fury, the works. But instead, Eddard is staring at him, eyes wide and mouth open.

Jaime swallows, tries to think of what sort of thing a man is supposed to say after kissing someone he hates in a straw pile. “So, that was—"

Eddard growls, sinks his teeth into Jaime’s neck hard enough to bruise, and Jaime can’t help the broken moan that comes from deep in his chest in response. He can’t quite process what’s happening: he’s trading bites and kisses with Eddard Stark while covered in straw like some rustic youth in a country ballad. This wasn’t what he planned, he doesn’t even like Eddard. Well. One part of him seems to like Eddard very much.

He’d feel a bit ashamed if he were the only one hard in his breeches, but he’s not.

“Never thought you’d want this, Stark,” he pants between kisses, shoving their bodies together. Because Eddard can lie all he wants, but his body tells the truth: when Jaime shoves his thigh between Eddard’s legs, he’s greeted by a hard length and a quiet curse.

He ruts against Eddard again, angling his thigh just so. “Never thought you’d be hot for me like this.”

Suddenly Eddard’s hands are on his ribs, and before Jaime has a chance to protest, Eddard is flipping their bodies so that he’s on top, pinning Jaime down. “You need to learn to still your tongue, Lannister,” he growls, and fuck, his voice goes straight to Jaime’s cock.

"Fuck you,” Jaime snarls, shoving his thigh hard against Eddard’s cock again, half hoping it hurts. “You love this,” he gasps. “It gets you hot because you know that deep down, you’re no better than I am, that you would’ve done the same, you would’ve—”

He can’t say anything more, because suddenly Eddard’s hands are heavy on his throat. “Shut up,” he snarls. “For once in your gods’ damned life, shut up.”

Jaime gasps as his airway is cut off and retaliates the only way he can: with a vicious roll of his hips against Eddard’s length, hard enough that Eddard lets out a pained hiss. “Hot for me,” Jaime taunts in a raspy voice, as best he can with the air still in his lungs.

Eddard snarls and tightens his hands around Jaime’s neck and gods, it shouldn’t feel as good as it does. He’s dizzy, head swimming, achingly hard in his breeches. He’d beg for a hand to thrust into, but he can’t speak anymore, can’t do anything but struggle for air as Eddard ruts against him.

Then, just as his vision begins to grey at the edges Eddard releases him, and the gush of air into his lungs is so much and so overwhelming that he can’t help but keen, trembling and bucking his cock up against Eddard’s thigh. “Gods, Stark,” he moans. His muscles shake, and as his orgasm builds in his gut, he pulls Eddard down for a kiss. “ _Gods.”_

***

After, Eddard has the mournful countenance of someone who has just killed a man. “This won’t happen again,” he says.

Jaime dredges up a flippant smile, because Eddard will expect it of him. “It won’t,” he agrees. “I swear it on my honor.”

For once, Eddard doesn’t rise to the bait and ask what honor he’s referring to; Jaime would like to think it’s a measure of how much he’s unsettled the man. He just straightens out his clothing and plucks straw from his hair with the air of a man heading for a funeral, then offers a halting nod and makes for the door. He's missed a piece of straw on the back of his head; Jaime doesn’t point it out.

“It won’t happen again,” Eddard repeats, so softly Jaime almost doesn’t hear him. Like he’s trying to convince himself.

Jaime stays silent. He figures that’s what Eddard will say next time too.


End file.
